


On the Edge

by bea_bickerknife



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Adultery as Inconvenience, Bisexual Murder Girlfriends, Egregious Misappropriation of Philanthropic Funds, F/F, Reference to Sinister and Absurdist Optometry, Sexual Frustration (Among Other Types of Frustration)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 10:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14134380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/pseuds/bea_bickerknife
Summary: Esmé Squalor has always been a handsy drunk.





	On the Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ordinarylittleme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinarylittleme/gifts).



> As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.

Esmé Squalor has always been a handsy drunk.

Of course, she’s fairly handsy when she’s sober, too, but anyone who comes within arm’s length of her at an event with an open bar (or a cash bar, or an allegedly tamper-proof safe containing a selection of rare and priceless Canadian brandies) runs the risk of discovering the curious way alcohol seems to heighten her fascination with textures and sensations. After a few cocktails, it’s simply not enough to covet a partygoer’s dangling diamond earrings – she has to reach out and feel the glinting edges of the facets, and if the wearer values their earlobes, they’ll stand still while she conducts her examination. Unusual fabrics and expensive-looking jewelry tend to attract her attention, but under ordinary circumstances, she’s less interested in the people they adorn.

Tonight is far from ordinary.

The annual Squalor Fund charity gala isn’t ordinary, despite what the guests assume. In fact, if any of them had bothered to read the fine print on their hand-embossed invitations, they might have noticed that this year, the proceeds from their tickets no longer benefit the Jerome Squalor Fund for the Education of Underprivileged Youth, but the Esmé Squalor Fund for Varied Financial Disbursement (a phrase which here means “personal Swiss bank account”).

The surroundings aren’t ordinary, either. The rooftop garden and cocktail bar at the Auberge Valois-Saint-Rémy is packed with City’s impeccably-dressed elite, sipping cranberry Manhattans as they _ooh_ and _ahh_ over the Rococo chandeliers that seem to float in midair, suspended by transparent cables high above the gleaming marble terrace. Exotic flowers perfume the night air, an artificial waterfall babbles quietly behind the string quartet, and far, far below, the glittering City spreads out as far as the eye can see.

And well away from the crowd, looking down over the Hospitality District with one hand resting on the railing and the other raising her martini glass to her lips, is the least ordinary woman the event’s hostess has ever met.

“It isn’t fair, you know,” murmurs Esmé, sidling up behind her. 

Georgina looks over her shoulder, startled. “What isn’t?”

“This dress.” Midnight blue and flecked with silver, the dress in question clings to the curves of Georgina’s body like a second skin. Its hemline stops just short of her knees, and its neckline – _suspiciously **in** for a woman who claims she doesn’t read the Style section _ – leaves her shoulders nearly bare. “ _You_ in this dress,” Esmé clarifies, and reaches out to trace the metallic constellation to the right of the zipper. The spangles rasp pleasurably against her fingertips, but the fabric is silky, thin enough that she can feel the decadent heat underneath it, and the familiar craving for more sensation takes over without warning.

“Esmé, we’re – ” Hurriedly, Georgina sets her drink down on the ledge. Esmé is caressing her waist, the edge of her right thumb tantalizingly, perilously close to the underside of her breast. “We’re not alone, Esmé.”

“Ashamed to be seen with me, darling?”

The word _tease_ floats through Georgina’s mind, whether in reference to the tone in the younger woman’s voice or the way her left hand has begun to play over her hip she’s not entirely sure. “Everyone here thinks you’re happily married.”

“Yes, well, _everyone here_ also thinks Jerome is in Zurich, when we both know perfectly well that he’s locked himself in his armoire because his new optometrist convinced him that he’s a dinner jacket, so it seems to me that everyone here is wrong about all sorts of things.”

“And we need them to _keep_ being wrong about those things, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” There’s no choice but to keep up the domestic charade until she secures the penthouse, and she may be one or two Manhattans past tipsy, but she’s nowhere near drunk enough to forget it. “I just…” Taking a step forward to stand beside Georgina, she grips the railing with both hands. “ _God_ , I can’t take much more of this.”

Exactly which _this_ the financier means is unclear. _Occam’s razor_ , decides Georgina. _The simplest explanation is usually the right one_. “We’re on the roof of a hotel, you know,” she points out with a sly sidelong glance over the top of her glasses. “I’m sure I could get us a room for the night, if that’s what you – ”

“What I want?” asks Esmé bitterly. She can’t let herself meet Georgina’s eyes, doesn’t trust her self-control enough; instead, she stares out over the City, knuckles whitening as she tightens her grasp on the cold metal. “I want to _touch_ you, Georgie. I want to touch you and I want to kiss you in _public_ for once, and I want every single person on this godforsaken roof to know it’s _you_ I’m here with. _That’s_ what I want.”

Her outburst hangs in the air between them as they stand side-by-side in silence, both staring down at the glimmering lights, neither really seeing them. Then Esmé’s breathing begins to slow, and she feels the warm weight of a familiar hand on top of her own.

“I know,” says Georgina. “Trust me, Esmé. I know.”

Black eyes trail upward from the rooftops to the railing, lingering for a moment on the delicate flicker of a vein on the back of Georgina’s hand. “How much longer?”

“I don’t – ”

For the first time tonight, Esmé looks her dead in the face. “Lie to me if you have to.”

“You know I won’t do that,” she sighs, raising her free hand to silence Esmé’s oncoming objection. “But I don’t have to. Given how nicely your husband seems to be taking to my… _suggestions_ , I can’t imagine I’ll need more than a week to get him to sign over the deed.”

“A week?”

Georgina squeezes her hand. “Less.”

A slow, radiant smile spreads over the angular face of the City’s sixth-most-important financial advisor. “In that case, I think you’d better go get us that room.”

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was requested by Tumblr user @ordinarylittleme


End file.
